


Not Dumber, Just a Little Bit Older

by lostin_space



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Michael Guerin Needs a Hug, Michael Guerin Week 2019, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 21:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20749205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostin_space/pseuds/lostin_space
Summary: Michael had decided there was a science to dumpster diving.-Guerin Week Day 6: pre-canon and/or the lost decade





	Not Dumber, Just a Little Bit Older

**Author's Note:**

> this is a day late, but I needed to sleep because I worked literally all weekend. Hope you guys like it!

Michael had decided there was a science to dumpster diving.

Some stuff was good past its expiration date, others were not. Some stores threw out perfectly good food while others would sell shit until it molded. The best places to go were the bagel shop on 4th Street, the big grocery store near the center of town, and the Crashdown.

Obviously, all of these places had prime times to dumpster dive. The bagel shop was nice and they threw out only slightly stale bagels after closing. The issue was that they closed at six and left at seven, meaning it was daylight still if you wanted anything good and that was a quick way to get caught. The grocery store was 24-hours and constantly had a flow of people, but their dumpster got emptied three times a week so, sometimes, it was worth the risk. The Crashdown was really good because Mr. Ortecho went to bed almost right after closing and only one of his daughters stayed out late enough to see anyone lurking, but she never paid any mind. Michael wondered if it was because she was lurking herself.

So, here he was, the night before the first day of senior year and desperately trying to get something to eat before Isobel demanded to know why she could see his ribs. He never meant to get so thin, but he was running out of options and he had to stretch the money he made from working on the ranch until the next summer. He couldn’t just buy food every day. While he did his best to buy bulk, that was hard to do when you lived in your truck.

Isobel and Max offered to help, but he didn’t like accepting it. They’d pay for his meals when they went out and sometimes Isobel would give him her full water bottle from her purse, insisting she wasn’t going to drink it and it would just go to waste. Even that felt like he was asking for too much. He didn’t even want to think about what they told their parents.

Tonight, though, the Crashdown must’ve been slow because there was three damn near perfect burgers and tons of only slightly soggy fries, all bagged up like it was made for him. He thanked whatever god might hear that he beat the raccoons to it.

He started to shove it all into his bag, knowing he’d have to find somewhere else to eat it. His stomach was aching from a long day at Foster’s without any food other than a sandwich from Mrs. Foster, but it could wait a little longer. It would have to.

“Did it really come to this, conejito?” 

Michael froze at the voice behind him, panic filling him head to toe. Logically, he could make a run for it and just hope that he didn’t notice him well enough to call the cops. The problem with that is that Mr. Ortecho wouldn’t have called him ‘conejito’ if he wasn’t sure that it was Michael. He’d earned that nickname through doing odd jobs for him so he didn’t have to go back to the group home.

“I-I’m sorry, I’ll put it back. I won’t do it again. Please don’t call the cops, Mr. Ortecho, please,” he begged as he turned to face the man. He wasn’t in his uniform anymore, instead wearing pajamas which means he had to be waiting for Michael to show up. He hadn’t just overheard him. Fuck.

“Come inside,” Mr. Ortecho urged, nodding towards the back door of the Crashdown. Michael didn’t move. “I’m not going to call the police on you, conejito. Come inside.” 

Reluctantly, he followed.

Mr. Ortecho had him sit at the counter while he walked into the fridge in the kitchen area. Michael’s leg was bouncing and his cheeks were burning. He was expecting to be cursed out or beaten or anything. Mr. Ortecho’s calmness had him shaking more than Mr. Choi from the bagel shop did when he chased him with a fly swatter.

Mr. Ortecho reappeared with a plate full of food, steaming and calling Michael’s name. His stomach growled as it was placed on the counter in front of him. It felt like a trick. He waited for the catch.

“What are you waiting for? Eat,” Mr. Otecho said, gesturing to the plate. Michael was so tempted, but he didn’t trust a homemade meal that easily.

“Why?”

“Because you’re a strong and smart young man in need. You don’t deserve to start a criminal record just so you can eat,” he said and the chilaquiles smelled so good that Michael just couldn’t hold out any longer.

It was gone within a few minutes.

“Thank you, Mr. Ortecho,” Michael gushed, “I really appreciate it. I promise I’ll do whatever you need around the store or‒”

“We have dinner as a family at 7 every night. There is always a place for you. You can’t eat out of the trash like that, conejito,” he said intensely.

Michael’s stomach churned. “With your daughters?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t, Mr. Ortecho.” There were few things more embarrassing than eating out of a dumpster, but eating with kid’s from school because you’re _that_ broke was one of them. Besides, if Isobel and Max found out, he’d be so fucked.

“Ay dios mio, what is with you kids? You’d rather eat out a dumpster than have someone know that you need help,” Mr. Ortecho said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Michael couldn’t make himself small enough. “Alright, fine, fine, then just come to the Crashdown at closing time and I’ll give you a plate.”

“Are you sure?” Michael asked. He didn’t understand why he was offering to feed him. Mr. Ortecho had no obligation towards him, yet he seemed to think he did. It was weird.

“I am more than sure. You need help, conejito, don’t be embarrassed by that,” Mr. Ortecho insisted. Michael nodded, though they both knew that it would take more than that to make it actually sink in.

“Thank you, Mr. Otecho,” he said, slowly climbing to his feet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night.” Michael nodded his head once again though he wasn’t entirely sure he would be taking up the offer. He would have to decide if it was worth it. Maybe he could lie if Liz or Rosa saw him and say he was giving it to his dogs. That could work. “Michael.”

Michael turned at the sound of his name the moment he reached for the door. Mr. Ortecho looked ominously serious in a way that had him shaking with nerves all over again.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?”

Michael froze at the question, trying to come up with a good lie. He couldn’t say at Max’s because it was late and obviously Max was already at home and the Evans’ wouldn’t just let some hooligan into their house at 11 PM.

“At a friend’s, sir,” he said, hoping it sounded believable. Mr. Ortecho didn’t buy it for a second, but he didn’t argue either.

“We have a couch that’s just as open as that seat at the table. All you have to do is accept it.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

-

Michael stood in front of the Crashdown, shaking and lonely. He couldn’t go to Alex. He couldn’t go to Maria. He couldn’t go to Isobel. He couldn’t go to Max. God, _Max_. He didn’t even want to close his eyes because all he saw was his brother’s lifeless body. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Conejito? Is that you?” Mr. Ortecho’s voice asked as the lights flicked on. Michael hugged himself a little closer as the door opened. Mr. Ortecho looked concerned and Michael wondered what Liz was going to tell him about Rosa. Everything was so fucked. So, so, so fucked.

“I-I know it’s been a few years, but, um,” Michael sniffled, rubbing his aching eyes as he let out a dry laugh. It had been more than a few years. Try eleven. “But is your offer still open?”

Mr. Oretcho opened the door a little wider.

“Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> also on my tumblr: spaceskam


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